Chapter Eleven
Asher
If there’s one thing I hate almost as much as the media, it’s sponsors and investors. So being sent out to a dinner with both and displayed like a fucking show horse in a ridiculous monkey-suit is just about the only thing that can make my week worse.
I bombed the race, got yelled at by every member of team management, andthisis the penance they decided on. Sending me to this dinner, simply because two of the investors are mega-fans of my dad’s work.
I like people who idolize my father just as much as I like cultists and conspiracy theorists. That is to say, not at fuckingall.
“His exhibition in London is phenomenal,” one of them gushes in my ear. I think his name is William something. “My wife couldn’t stop talking about it for days.”
William is in his sixties, short, and stout—and seems to be completely unable to hold back from talking about his family for more than thirty seconds. I think he’s vying for thefamily manaward from the douchebag convention. Almost like it’ll erase the public scandal he caused by fucking his secretary not long ago.
“The inspiration he took from Kandinsky is subtle but evident—”
“Yes,” I cut in shortly. “He’s quite good.”
“I imagine it must be hard for you to stay so far away from him—he’s spoken about the inspiration his family offers him in countless interviews.”
When Dad saysfamily,what he really means iswife.Similarly to good old William here, my father’s defining trait is his obsession with his wife and muse. An obsession that runs so deep it’s curbed his ability to afford attention to anyone else—like his sons.
I was sent away to my first boarding school in Switzerland when I was six. I saw my parents a handful of times over the next ten years—whenever I was in the states for holidays, I was stashed away with my mother’s parents. Unlike their daughter or son-in-law, my grandparents are not artistic; they’re businesspeople. Naturally, I got along with them far better than I got along with the people who brought me into this world and decided to hand me over to nannies and boarding schools.
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” I say vaguely. The only reason I knew that dad had finished a new series of paintings was because I saw it in an ad on social media.
William claps my shoulders with a bright smile. “Very true. You know, my wife and I are actually…”
I make a point to drown out the rest of his words as he, I, and a sponsor whose name I don’t bother to recall are all seated at a circular table. I lean back in my chair, mentally preparing myself for three hours of tedious conversation and mediocre food, when I seeher.
I only catch her side profile, but her hair is enough to tip me off. I’ve never seen such a pitch-black, shimmery color before.
What thefuckis the intern doing here?
And who the hell is the guy sitting across from her?Is he… is he herboyfriend?Is she spending her nightsdatinginstead of working? And why am I suddenly so ridiculously, irrationally angry?
“Asher?” William repeats. I tear my gaze away from the intern and turn my stare on William. It must be a bit harsh, because he balks and shrinks back into his seat.Pussy.
“My apologies, I thought I saw someone I knew.” I adjust one of my ridiculous silver cufflinks. “What were you saying?”
“Soren assures us that the team’s working quite hard at adjusting their strategy and Ilya mentioned that Gaston’s working on a program to aid this, but…”
And so commences the next two tedious,impossiblehours. I answer William’s questions as politely as I can—which is to say I keep my responses sharp, minimal, and to the point. I indulge the other sponsor’s requests for information in the same manner, and overall, I amjustcivilized enough that neither of these well-dressed pricks can tattle to my bosses about my behavior. Still, I make no real effort to befriend them. If they wanted a sell out instead of a driver, they should have sent Elio.
And, every ten goddamn seconds, my gaze slides back to Victoria. I imagine myself doing something obscene, like storming up to her table and coolly informing herthat she better get back to HQ if she still wants a job in the morning. Or punching her date in the face. Not because I care, but he looks like a wealthy asshole—which I didnotpeg for her type.
By the time dessert rolls around, Victoria and the prick are leaving. They don’t hold hands, which is a small mercy, but they do seem way too goddamncomfortabletogether. As though they’ve been going out for a while. They talk quietly and easily with each other, like the rest of the restaurant doesn’t exist.
When Victoria walks past my table, her eyes catch mine for a fraction of a second. There’s absolutely no surprise in them… which means she knew I was here and deliberately decided to ignore me. Probably because she was too caught up in whatever monotonous conversation she was holding with wealthy-prick.
I see resentment in her gaze, paired with a hint of anger, which perversely satisfies me. If she’s taking up space in my mind, I sure as fuck should be living rent-free in hers, even if the room allotted to me is titledhatred.
She breezes past me and makes it to the door. Urgency tightens my gut, and I stand so abruptly from the table, I almost tip over my chair. William and the investor both give me startled looks.
Shit.
“Sorry, gentlemen,” I say in a failed attempt to sound smooth. “It’s getting late, and I’ve got an early morning tomorrow.” I fish my wallet from the pocket of my slacks and toss a few bills onto the table. “Thanks for the company.”
And then, like the moron or madman I’ve somehow turned into, I stalk after the intern.
